Physiology
by Radioheaded
Summary: Senses: The physiological methods of perception


Touch.

Hesitant at first. Accidental. Someone slips, falls, hurtles towards an unforgiving ground and is caught; warm arms embrace, cradle. They're shoved away, rejected. House was fine; he would have caught himself. Wilson accepts this, allows the man his dignity while his arms absorb abandoned heat. Gazes meet and they agree that the night is not over; loneliness is on the periphery of both men but neither will admit it. And so they go; House on his motorcycle, feeling alive the only way he knows how, and Wilson in his car. Safe. He drives behind House, watches the bike take sharp corners going far too fast. But then they're in the comfort of House's apartment. House in kitchen, calls to Wilson. Asks if he wants a beer. Wilson calls backs, answers in the affirmative and is handed a cool bottle. His fingers grasp for it, close around slick condensation and meet flesh. Warm then cool then warm. Neither say anything when the beat is extended; when the moment stretches out in front of them and they're touching, bridged by a beer. Hearts beat loudly, strain with an increased pulse and then Wilson holds a beer and House is sitting next to him like nothing happened. Not like anything did. Right?

They sit together, watching television, watching each other. Pretending to be absorbed in the latest exploits of McDreamy. House comments on the big-breasted blonde and Wilson rolls his eyes, laughs like he's supposed to. But the couch is sticky hot under him and he can't get comfortable; while he fusses, rearranging position House gets up, slides past mumbling about another drink. Wilson sits back, tries to make room but House's knee hits his and through the fabric they touch again. And there's something off; both know that this isn't what it used to be. Normalcy has evaporated, leaving an uneasy awareness that can only bring bad things. House continues, gets to the end of the couch and then turns back and in that moment Wilson understands that permission has been granted. He's up and House looks at him, stares him down as he approaches. His hands reach out, grasp rumpled fabric and pull until a body presses against his. It's a hesitant embrace but it fits; they're molded for one another and it's a liquid, startling feeling. Synapses of nerves light up, fire brilliantly and skin becomes enflamed, sensitive. The feeling of their clothes against them starts an arousal that can't be denied. Hands explore; fingers move like liquid through satin hair, mouths meet and there's shared surprise over how soft a man's lips can be. House's face is rough but Wilson presses his cheek close, moves it slowly and sighs at the dichotomy between House's lips and face. House tries not to think.

Cool sheets encircle the pair as they move together, one exploring the other slowly, carefully. Sweat is exchanged, slick as bodies slide over each other.  
Nails scrape, electrifying skin, leaving red trails that become secrets. And when it's over, far too quickly, they lay together breathing hard, shaking from adrenaline, waiting for their bodies to cool, grounded by the feel of the solid bed beneath them.

Taste

It's a weird sharing, kissing. It's personal and sexy and when they let go there's a mingled taste in their mouths that can only be described as right (perfect). Wilson leaves early the next morning, kisses House lightly on the lips as he goes but before he can move back he's pulled in, angled so House can explore his mouth, taste him fully. He's released, watched as he mumbles an excuse to leave and flees. In his hotel he dresses quickly, gets to work on time and sits in his office, trying to make sense of things. When House walks in (on time) he's surprised; he stands, waits for an explanation but is instead kissed again; this time House is mint and Wilson is bitter from coffee barely swallowed. House mutters in Wilson's ear that this is happening; he's not going to fuck it up like he always does. Wilson nods, relaxes. He's not being rejected.

They barely get in the door of House's building before Wilson has attached himself to the other man's neck. Wilson tastes soap and sweat and it slides down his throat; he's hungry for more as he strips House of his shirt and slides his mouth down the lanky body in slow, warm circles. House smells good, always has and he's breathing him in subconsciously, trying to memorize the scent. Trying to make it a part of himself.

When House reciprocates he notices that Wilson tastes sweet. It's not cologne; he doesn't think Wilson uses it, but somehow the skin that's under his almost hesitant tongue is sweet, tangy. A bead of sweat makes its way down Wilson's chest and he catches it, almost amazed as it mixes with him. Whatever this is, this screwed-up extension of an already fragile relationship is solidified in the moment where both men realize how they complete the other.

Sight

Eyes lock, pupils dilate. They take each other in languorously; no one speaks but it's good and fine and right. House sees what he always has but more; he examines Wilson like he's giving an exam. Brown hair, soft. Young face (eyes betray his age). Long, little-boy lashes. Broad shoulders, bigger than his own. Narrow waist, thin hips. Long legs. Strong. Wilson is in the prime of his life and though House likes to look at him, likes to see how beautiful he is, can't help but hate him a little bit. Wilson is perfect; whole. House isn't. But the antagonism slips away when his eyes meet Wilson's and he sees no doubt, no worry (no hesitation).

Wilson looks at House and sees the answer to a question he's gotten wrong three times. He sees strength and self-hatred, loneliness and anger. But now he sees something new; hope clings to House lightly, entrenches itself in the older man's cells, trying to find a way to stay (permanence). He sees eyes that tell him when to start, when to stop, when to slow down. He looks at House's leg, touches it, lets his fingers massage out the knots. It's gnarled and puckered; leaving pieces where a whole structure once was. But it's beautiful because it's a part of House.

Moments are tucked away into memory; the way Wilson's eyes snap shut, teeth clench, shoulders roll back when he orgasms. The way he's so loose afterward, stretches his limbs out and smiles sleepily. House keeps his eyes open until the very end, until he's fallen into a wave of pleasure so strong his muscles contract and relax uncontrollably. When he comes back, regains the ability to speak, he looks at Wilson and the other man knows it's a thank-you.

The way House looks asleep; his forehead, always lined with concentration becomes slack, flat. His lips move silently as he murmurs in his dreams, sometimes calling out a single name. He's sweet, almost, when he's unconscious; unguarded. Wilson watches him silently until House wakes up, cracks an eye and asks him what he thinks he's doing.

Their facial expressions, familiar before, become a second language. They don't need to speak as much, ask questions because they can read body language; the furrow in Wilson's brow is stress. He's worried about a patient. The quirk in House's eyebrow is his sarcastic way of flirting. Bodies become what words can't express.

Smell

Once they live together, their scents begin to mingle. House uses Wilson's shampoo, makes fun of it all the while. Wilson uses House's soap. House walks through the hospital and knows Wilson has been there by the trail left in the other man's wake. Wilson's like an autumn morning; cool, sharp. Clean.

House is a mix of deodorant and fabric softener and when Wilson leans in to kiss the thin skin of the man's neck the scent is irresistible; the crook where House's shoulders meet his neck is always left with a purple mark, which House complains about but secretly likes. He returns the favor to Wilson, but….lower. When they touch, or kiss or embrace they can smell each other on themselves; it's almost life-affirming. They have someone. They're marked. Taken.

Hearing

House is surprisingly quiet in bed. His moans are low, breathy. Hard to hear. Wilson pants, encourages, talks a little. Both their voices take on a ragged edge as they surrender to sensation. Wilson sighs after; House breathes through his nose loudly.

They've always know each other's voices, but now it's different. Phone calls make tones change, become personal. Tender (on Wilson's part), relaxed (House).

The piano is Wilson's favorite thing to come home to. It greets him from the hallway, ushers him in and makes him stop, pause for a moment so he can process the fact that he's with someone that can invoke so much beauty; someone who's so acerbic, sarcastic, even mean, can make him feel so alive, so speechless, through piano chords. He watches House's eyes close, watches as his fingers take on life and produce sounds that make him think heaven must exist. And then the music stops; House asks what's for dinner.

Wilson's voice, when he first wakes up, drives House wild. It's thick, deep, sleepy. But every morning, when Wilson thinks House is asleep, he whispers throatily that he loves House; that he's so, so glad they're together. House doesn't move, but when the words hit his ears and echo through, he's pretty sure he'll be able to make it through the day.


End file.
